Page 3 of Ask Your Mom If I'm Real

Chapter

Two

Most likely to deck a hoe.

—T-shirt

DIXIE

Past

I walked into the bar, my eyes immediately trying to adjust to the darkness of the interior.

The first thing I saw once my eyes had adjusted was the neon blue BEER sign above the bar, followed by the woman with ice-blonde hair, shadowed with blue from the sign, standing below it.

My gaze greedily took her in.

“Get in already, brother,” Stetson, the president of the Dixie Wardens MC, Tuscaloosa Chapter, urged.

I didn’t blame him for his urgency.

It was literally zero degrees outside.

Us country boys didn’t do well with that kind of temperature, and I didn’t care how many of us lied that we could.

I stepped aside, my eyes locked on the woman.

She was short.

So short, in fact, that she could barely be seen over the bar.

“Grab us a beer when you go talk to her,” Stetson ordered.

Stetson walked away, leaving me to my own devices.

Which, of course, was why I walked right up to the bar, stopping when I was directly in front of her.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

I grinned. “Your telephone number.”

I was never home.

In fact, I was gone more often than I was home, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t have the ability to call her from a hotel phone.

“Are you even old enough to be in this bar?” she asked.

I chuckled at her attempt to force some distance.

I ran my hands through my hair. “Doesn’t it look like I am?”

“You don’t look all that old to be having that white of hair,” the woman said, taking me in.

“Genetic anomaly,” I explained, smiling devilishly. “My dad passed on this gene that literally makes it to where we don’t have any pigment in our hair. Hence the white.”

She studied my hair. “I like it, though. Suits you.”

I preened like a damn peacock.

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